


My Peasant Hands

by queerhazeleyes



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [5]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, Nightmares, Other, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:10:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerhazeleyes/pseuds/queerhazeleyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Vikings drabbles prompted on Tumblr</p><p>Chapter 1: Petrichor - The smell of dry rain on the ground, OT3</p><p>Chapter 2: Autolatry - The worship of one's self, Lagertha-centric</p><p>Chapter 3: "Shh, c'mere," Athelstan/Lagertha/Ragnar, nightmares</p><p>Chapter 4: Malapert - Clever in manners of speech, Athelstan/Ragnar</p><p>Each chapter is a stand-alone, and more will likely be added in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Petrichor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petrichor - the smell of dry rain on the ground
> 
> "Athelstan!" exclaimed Lagertha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://queerhazeleyes.tumblr.com/post/84189873206/the-woes-of-being-on-mobile-lol-i-reblogged-instead-of)

"Athelstan!" exclaimed Lagertha. The priest looked up from his book with a curious smile. She was barefoot, her hair loose and damp and eyes dancing with mischief. "Come with me," she said, and dragged him out of their bed towards the door. 

"What is it?" he asked, laughing in response to her contagious excitement. He followed willingly as she led him outside into the rainstorm.

"Athelstan!" Ragnar said, pleased, when he spotted the pair. He was shirtless and barefoot, and dashed forward to grab at his lovers’ hands. "Can’t you feel it?" he half-shouted, tossing his head back to laugh as thunder rumbled across the sky.

"Feel what?" Athelstan asked, though he thought he knew what Ragnar meant. The power of the storm. It crept along his skin, chilling him despite the warmth of the summer rain, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Lagertha and Ragnar smiled at him; they knew he understood. At their urging, Athelstan joined his two lovers and they began to whirl around, dancing as the sky emptied itself.


	2. Autolatry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Autolatry - The worship of one's self
> 
> "The firelight flickered across the flat of Lagertha’s sword where it lay across her lap."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://queerhazeleyes.tumblr.com/post/85490502146/autolatry-vikings)

The firelight flickered across the flat of Lagertha’s sword where it lay across her lap. In one hand she held a whetstone which she ran along the edge of the blade again and again, eye following its path critically. The sword was in good condition despite the recent battle, no new nicks or dents in the metal. Her shield, which lay against one wall of the room, would need to be reinforced and repainted before she wielded it again.

Lagertha tested the sharpness of her sword and, pleased, turned it over to check on the leather wrapped around the hilt. It was worn soft, formed to the grip of her hand. Blood stained the edge along the cross-guard, but the damage was only superficial and it wouldn’t need replacing yet. 

"Lagertha?" Athelstan poked his head through the doorway, dark curls loose around his flushed face. In one hand he held a cup of ale. "What are you doing in here?"

"Just checking over my sword," she replied with a smile. The priest frowned slightly, fingers rubbing nervously at the scars on his palms. "Don’t worry, Athelstan. I don’t plan on waging war. I just prefer to be ready, to have my weapons in good shape in case war is waged upon me. A warrior is only as good as her weapons."


	3. "Shh, c'mere"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athelstan/Lagertha/Ragnar, "Shh, c'mere"
> 
> "Athelstan jolted awake in the middle of the night, throwing off the furs from the bed in his panic."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://queerhazeleyes.tumblr.com/post/99290574226/athelstan-lagertha-ragnar-shh-cmere-d)

Athelstan jolted awake in the middle of the night, throwing off the furs from the bed in his panic. He ran his hands across his forehead and each other, checking for blood. When there was none, only scars in various stages of healing, he closed his eyes against the darkness and tried to catch his breath. He gasped for air, massaging the scars on his palms.

"Athelstan?" Lagertha asked. She sat up beside him. "Are you all right?"

He shook his head and let out another shuddering breath. “Nightmare. I—I—”

Lagertha wrapped her arms around him, taking his hands gently in her own and stopping his nervous motions. “Shh, c’mere,’ she said. In one smooth movement she pulled him backwards and across her body so they swapped positions, placing Athelstan in the center of the bed between her and Ragnar. “You’re safe, love,” she assured him.

From the other side of the bed Ragnar shifted, wrapping his arms around Athelstan’s chest to cover the pair’s joined hands with his own. Athelstan jolted a little at the movement; he hadn’t realized the other man was awake. “We’ve got you,” Ragnar murmured into Athelstan’s hair. He leaned up to kiss the priest’s temple, right where a small scar lingered. Athelstan hadn’t shared yet what he went through in England, but the scars marking his body told his lovers enough to make them extra protective. Slowly, Lagertha drew their joined hands close to press her lips to the scars on Athelstan’s palms. Ragnar followed suit before drawing both his lovers close.

Tears welled in Athelstan’s eyes and he buried his face in Lagertha’s neck. “I love you,” he said. “Both of you.” It still felt like he had never told them that often enough.

"We know," Lagertha promised. "Now sleep, sweetheart. We’ve got you."


	4. Malapert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malapert - Clever in manners of speech, Athelstan/Ragnar
> 
> The firelight flickered across Athelstan’s face as he took another swig of ale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://queerhazeleyes.tumblr.com/post/101565673291/malapert-with-ragnar-athelstan)

The firelight flickered across Athelstan’s face as he took another swig of ale. Winter nights in Kattegat were long and dark with not much to do besides drink, tell stories, and fuck, but since he had forsworn the last, Athelstan was stuck with only the two choices. He embraced the first with vigor, drinking far more ale than he had been capable of when he first arrived, and listened eagerly to the tales shared by Ragnar and his shield brothers. The subject matter varied greatly, from childhood adventures to fables about their gods (those stories seemed as plentiful as the ones Athelstan could tell about his own god) to battlefields and raids, even the occasional romantic anecdote. 

Some nights, like tonight, Ragnar drew Athelstan a small distance away from the merriment and beseeched him to share more words in English. “Some days I fear I’ve already forgotten all you have taught me of your language,” Ragnar would say, eyes bluer than the summer sky and wide with earnestness. Athelstan, who could deny Ragnar little when he looked at him like that, would nod obligingly and briefly review what words Ragnar already knew.

At the start of the winter it was very little, and only really useful to the man when he went raiding. As time passed and the snow outside deepened, Athelstan expanded his lessons to include words about farming, about cooking, about hunting, about family. Before the thaw began, Ragnar was fluent enough to hold short conversations with the monk entirely in his native tongue. His excitement at his new proficiency was frankly adorable to behold—the way his face lit up when he used a newly-acquired word, his obvious pride at how much more easily he was able to find the right phrasing. Some of his sentences were oddly constructed, nouns and verbs not always in their proper places, but he could always make himself understood. Athelstan offered his corrections gently, mindful of his master’s ego. Ragnar nodded each time, a look of concentration on his face as he committed the proper grammar to memory. 

“Grammar is much more difficult than vocabulary,” he groused one evening after he’d made a string of mistakes. He pouted for only a moment before looking at Athelstan from beneath his eyelashes. “You did not make nearly so many errors when I first brought you home,” he said.

Athelstan shrugged and drank more ale. “When I first came here, I already knew a little of your language. And then I heard it spoken constantly, by everyone, and had to always speak it myself. It is easy to learn a new tongue when you have little other choice.” Ragnar’s gaze did not abate, and Athelstan flushed slightly. “You’ve improved greatly this winter, Ragnar, you should be proud. Some of my brothers at the monastery took much longer to learn as much Latin as you have of English.”

At last Ragnar relaxed a little, preening at the praise and leaning back in his seat. “Latin is the language of your god, yes? The one you speak your prayers in?”

“Yes.” Going to take another drink and finding his cup empty, Athelstan set it down on the small table between himself and Ragnar. “And the one most of our holy books are written in. Most of my people are not taught it unless they first dedicate themselves to God.”

“So you speak not two languages, but three? You have a clever tongue, little priest.” Ragnar’s eyes danced as though he longed to clarify the innuendo.

“Four, actually,” Athelstan said. He ducked his head as soon as the words were spoken, feeling boastful. “I, uh, I also know how to speak French.”

The earl’s smile at that was bright and proud. “Cleverer and cleverer. I knew I chose well, the day I took you as my treasure.”

Athelstan didn’t know what to say to that. Blushing quite fiercely now, he quickly redirected the conversation to furthering Ragnar’s English vocabulary.


End file.
